The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

Lizzy was keyed up and on edge, so she didn’t find it hard to stay awake, and she found herself puzzling over what they had heard. Verna was right when she said that the argument was revealing. Mildred had always seemed so placidly smug, so comfortable and contented in the midst of all her possessions. Her argument with Miss Dare had definitely disclosed a side of Mildred that Lizzy had never suspected—and which was definitely unsettling. She had never imagined mild-mannered, sweet-as-cream Mildred getting up the energy to strike a blow.

Lizzy shivered, thinking of the questions that had been raised by the argument they had just overheard and not liking any of them. How far would Mildred go to protect her home, her husband, the business, their way of life? And what about Miss Dare? How far would she go to get what she wanted? If she wanted Roger Kilgore, what would she do to get—and keep—him?

But there were no easy answers, so Lizzy gave up. She raised the window shade and passed the time watching the moon rise higher in the sky, tracing the outlines of the trees as they slipped across the silvered floor and into the shadowy corners of the room. Outside, the mysterious darkness was scented with honeysuckle and roses. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, out and about on a nocturnal excursion. Nearer at hand, the summer cicadas and katydids sang in the trees. Nearer still, Verna snored gently and shifted in her sleep. There were no sounds from Miss Dare’s room.

But the drone of the insects was hypnotic and staying alert got harder and harder. Lizzy felt herself drowsing, then jerking awake as her shoulders slumped and her chin dropped onto her chest. After alternately dozing and waking for a time, she finally pushed herself out of the chair and tiptoed across the hall to the bathroom. As she did, she saw a light at the far end of the hall and the rise and fall of voices. Roger must be home, and he and Mildred were talking.

Lizzy felt apprehensive. Would Mildred tell her husband about her argument with Miss Dare? Would she tell him the truth? How much would she tell him?

In the bathroom, she got a glass of water and brought it back to the room. She sat, sipping the water slowly, looking up at the starlit, moonstruck sky and trying not to think about anything—especially not about Grady and DeeDee Davis, the most beautiful girl in three counties. After a while, she was distracted from her efforts not to think about Grady and DeeDee by the surreptitious sound of a door opening, then closing again.

Was it the door to Miss Dare’s room, or the bathroom door, or the door to Angel Flame’s room, across the hall?

She got up and went to the hallway door and opened it cautiously, but the hall was much darker than their bedroom and she couldn’t see any movement. So she went back and knelt beside the door to Miss Dare’s room. She didn’t even have to press her ear against it, for she could now clearly hear the sound of voices. Miss Dare’s voice—and a man’s.

Roger Kilgore! And from the sound of it, he had been drinking pretty heavily at that poker game. Miss Dare was trying to shush him, without success.

“I want to know why you told Mildred,” Roger was saying in a gruff, slurred voice. “What’cha do it for?”

“I didn’t tell her!” Miss Dare protested. “I didn’t!”

Lizzy turned away to the bed to wake Verna, but she was a light sleeper. She had heard the voices and was instantly awake.

“Grand Central Station over there,” she whispered, joining Lizzy at the door. “Roger, isn’t it? Sounds like he’s fully loaded.”

Lizzy nodded, trying to imagine the scene. “I wonder what she’s wearing.” Something soft and clingy, probably. And sheer.

“Or not, as the case may be,” Verna added dryly. “Maybe she sleeps in the raw.”

“Well, wasn’t me who told her,” Roger growled. “So it must’ve been you.”

“He’s been talking to Mildred,” Lizzy whispered. “I saw the light on in their bedroom and heard their voices. He knows that she knows about the affair, although maybe she didn’t tell him quite everything. Or he was too drunk to get the whole story.”

“Probably too drunk,” Verna said. There was a sharp sound, like a chair falling over. “Uh-oh. Here we go, fight fans. Round two.”

But Roger must just have stumbled.

“You clumsy dolt.” Miss Dare laughed lightly—the same brittle laugh they had heard before. There was no amusement in it. “Come over here and sit down beside me.” The bed creaked. “Why are you so sore at me, sweetie?” she crooned. “Did you leave your brains at the poker table? Telling your wife about us is the last thing I’d do.”

“Then how did she—” Roger was obviously confused. “I can’t figure out how she—”

“Somebody sent her an anonymous letter. Didn’t she tell you that?” Miss Dare’s voice tightened, becoming fiercely sarcastic. “She was eager enough to tell me.”

“An anon . . . nonymous—” He stumbled over the word and gave it up. “Who wrote it?”